


Fury

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:19:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre, the furious one, was from the South.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fury

It was supposed to be a quiet night at the Musain. A game of backgammon was in full stride. Joly and Bossuet played, Grantaire gave advice, and Courfeyrac hollered encouragement from the corner of the room. Joly, on his third win in a game of seven, was about to roll the dice when the door burst open violently. Instantly, they were alert. Hands floated near concealed weapons. Maps were stowed away. Everyone expected a line of gendarmes to infiltrate the room. But the only person who infiltrated was Bahorel.

On his shoulder, bruised, bloodied and half-conscious, was Combeferre.

The room became a frenzy. Questions hurtled from mouths. Drinks spilled from upturned tables. The game was soon forgotten. Someone closed the door. The others cleared a space and spread out their coats as a rug. Bahorel lay Combeferre on the floor, and Enjolras was beside them in an instant. “Give him air.” he ordered.

Combeferre tried to dispel the worry in their faces. “It is nothing," he said quickly. “A cracked rib, some bruises, and a bleeding nose. That is all."

"Let Joly be the judge of that." Enjolras said. “What happened?"

Combeferre winced and looked away.

Confusion etched on his face, Enjolras turned to Bahorel and repeated the question. The man was about to reply when he caught Combeferre’s eyes. Reflected in them, as clear as lightning at night, was a look of absolute fury. Bahorel had been warned. “I found him doubled over in an alley on the way here,” he said vaguely. “That’s all I know."

On the floor, Combeferre tried to hide a hiss of pain. Enjolras bent over to ask him again when Joly intervened. “Let me look at the patient, Enjolras," he said as he poked another of Combeferre’s ribs. That dismissed all attempts of interrogation for the night.

—-

"You still will not tell me?"

"I told you it was a group of thieves."

"And yet nothing was stolen from your possessions."

Combeferre was in bed, on a proper bed in a room with a proper window. A draft of Parisian breeze entered, and it caused Enjolras’s hair to billow as he perched on the bed. It was two days since Combeferre’s attack, and the first day that he had allowed Enjolras to visit him.

"I have nothing else to tell you, Enjolras."

"And yet you have relayed everything to Courfeyrac."

Combeferre raised his brows in inquiry.

"He has avoided my gaze every time I mentioned your name."

Combeferre’s mouth opened in a silent “ah". He looked away. Both were silent for a time, and the curtains suddenly looked interesting.

"What I think," Enjolras said to the curtains, “since I have yet to receive a proper answer from the group of printers you met that day, is that the fight occurred in your meeting."

"Enjolras."

"And that whatever the reason, you saw it fit in your judgment to throw away this potential ally and engage in a brawl."

“ _Enjolras_."

"And that you are comfortable enough to relay this reason to anyone but myself."

Combeferre could not speak.

"And that —"

He trembled.

"And that your effort to hide it from me alone means you do not trust me."

Having confessed this fear, Enjolras found himself staring at his hand, at the hand that he had kept on the bed since the beginning of the conversation, at the hand that he had hoped Combeferre would reach out for and hold as per usual, at the hand that was feeling very, very cold at the moment.

At the hand that was pulled frantically off the bed.

"No!" Combeferre burst out, his eyes filled with mild horror. He had sat up violently, causing Enjolras to worry for his ribs.

"No," he repeated. “Don’t ever think that I don’t trust you."

Enjolras realized that Combeferre was holding his hand in a deathly grip. It was pinned to his chest, and with great reluctance, he extricated his hand and placed both on the sides of Combeferre’s face.

He enunciated slowly, with a quiet fierceness that resembled a lion about to pounce. “Then tell me what those bastards did."

"You would extract vengeance for me?"

"No, but there will be justice."

"Of the terrible kind?"

"Of the fitting kind."

"Well then, you would have to impose it upon me because I started it."

This brought Enjolras’s horrid thoughts to a halt. He stared in disbelief, and Combeferre could only bow in resignation.

"They insulted you," he said to Enjolras’s lap.

"Wha—"

"They said," Combeferre swallowed, “they said your hips were like a grisette’s, and that the only good that you could do for the revolution was to give the Guard a good fuck."

Combeferre was shaking. His cheeks were red, not for guilt or shame, but for anger. He was furious. The memories flashed through his head. The men laughed, they spat at his feet, and then they said it. Before he knew it, his fist connected.

Enjolras pulled him in, and Combeferre held on tight. It had been long, too long, since they last embraced.

"Oh, my friend.” Enjolras said against his shoulders, his voice hoarse. “Oh, my ardent friend, I do not deserve you.” He stroked Combeferre’s back until he stopped shaking.

"I’m sorry."

"Did you think that I could not bear such insults?"

"I’m sorry."

"Did you think I would even care?"

"I’m sorry."

"No," he said as he pulled away to look Combeferre in the eye. “I am sorry, for pushing you though you only thought of my well-being."

Combeferre heaved a sigh of relief, as if the burden of the sky was lifted from his back. He bowed, and Enjolras put his head forward until their foreheads met.

"That look you gave Bahorel scared me, you know."

Combeferre chuckled. “I have never been that furious before."

"And to think, that was Bahorel."

"I suppose I can be furious for the right reasons."


End file.
